The Last Time
by saltandtea-in221b
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street to see if John has forgotten him. Inspired by "The Last Time" - Taylor Swift ft. Gary Lightbody.


As it seems to go in life, sorrows come in droves. People die in threes, or so they say. Though sometimes, the death of a man doesn't come with a body bag. Sometimes, the death of a man isn't physical. Sometimes, a man dies only on the inside where the only symptoms of the loss of life are the tired, lifeless eyes, the phantom pain, the labored breathing, the disintegration of brain matter, the forced enthusiasm for once beloved things. Sometimes a man can go on living, all the while hiding his rotting corpse inside his skin and bones. Conversely, a man can die in a thoroughly convincing manner to set himself free. Death can release a man's life from the bondage of society, expectations, responsibilities. A means to an end, this type of death. Simply a stepping stone.

* * *

Sherlock stood as deep into the shadows as the night allowed. He internally chastised himself for being here. He knew it would always be this way, standing outside 221b Baker Street, just like all those times before, unsure of how he got there. It didn't seem to matter where his destination was, all roads led him here, eventually. He lit another cigarette, soothing his frayed nerves with the billowing nicotine-infused smoke.

It helped, being here. In this spot, he could see John's bedroom window. Just the window, nothing of the inside of his room, the state of his undress, the woman he shared the bed with. None of that was privy to Sherlock's gaze. Instead, Sherlock imagined John in his room. He imagined John sprawled out on his bed, drowsy blue eyes opening to stare into Sherlock's opalescent ones. Thoughts like these immediately made Sherlock's ravaged heart feel better, a balm on the burning hole in his chest.

Shaking ash off the cigarette, Sherlock knew he shouldn't go see John anymore than he should go see Mycroft. He'd break, shatter into a million little pieces, right in front of John. He'd have no time to explain, no time to warn John of his impending breakdown. It would happen immediately, as soon as John opened that damn door, Sherlock would be done for.

Sucking one last drag, Sherlock set his shoulders and walked up to the glossy black door with faded gold numbers. He paused a moment to trace the emblem, memorizing the feel, the texture. He seethed with annoyance that John had brought such sentiment into his life. Sighing gravely, he picked the lock on the door. It unlatched easily, swinging open like a hungry maw devouring ts prey.

Taking the inside stairs two at a time, Sherlock reached the door to the flat far too quickly. Contemplating a quick exit, he knew this moment would never happen again, the opportunity would pass by only once. He grabbed the knocker and gave a series of hard thuds. It matched the heavy beating of his own heart.

* * *

John tossed and turned beneath the damp sheets. The summer heat pressed down on the city like a wet blanket, giving no relief from the humidity, even during the darkest nights. He hated summers like this, all full of sweaty suits and too-tight shirts that clung to every inch of him. He tugged off the sheet, suddenly aware that some noise had woken him. A rapping noise was coming from the front of the flat. Checking the time, John cursed the person who considered 2 o'clock in the morning a decent time to call on him. Tugging on a pair of gym shorts, he padded over to the door. Placing an ear to the wood, he waiting to hear signs of movement from the other side. A few creaks of the floorboard implied there was indeed a visitor calling on him. Letting out a frustrated sigh, John undid the latch, throwing open the door fully prepared to give this inconsiderate bastard an earful. Time stood still as the door creaked to a stop on its hinges.

"Fuck." John swore quietly. Staring at him, looking forlorn and apologetic, was Sherlock. John didn't need to say much, Sherlock started in on his monolog before John's world had restarted.

"John, I know I don't deserve anything from you. But I just – I need you to not forget me. I know you've got lovers and women, but please, just – Just keep me at the top of your list, okay?"

John was dumbfounded. "Sherlock – Top of my list? List of what? I find you at my door, just like all those times in my dreams, apologizing to me. But I watched you _die_ Sherlock. I was there to watch you leave me. And you left all too willingly. And Christ, I've prayed that you'd come back, that I'd let you in. Know what happens every goddamn time I let you back in. You _leave._ You leave me again Sherlock. So what, I'm supposed to let you back in just so you can go again? Disappear as soon as you come back? For Christ's sake, everything is better. But I don't know when it's better – when you're here, or when you're gone! I just – I can't..."

"John, John. I swear. This is the last time. If you won't have me, I'll go. I won't hurt you anymore. But you should know – You should know it's been _you_ all along."

Unable to stay angry, John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, pulling him in closer. "Sherlock, I can't. I just can't do this. This has got to be the last time you come traipsing around telling me I've got it wrong. I need this to be the last time you show up at my door. I – I'm so sorry. I wish it was different. I do. But, its got to stop. I love you, but this is the last time."

The former detective was so long gone. It broke John's heart when this happened. He abhorred seeing the brilliant man reduced to tears, wandering back to the only home he could remember. John's original response was to soothe Sherlock's mind with words of love and affirmation, reassuring him that 'yes, of course I still love you'. Eventually, when the nighttime visits got worse, John and Mycroft agreed that John's approach needed to be firm. There was no keeping Sherlock away from Baker Street, but the reception there couldn't be one he looked forward to.

They hoped in time he might associate the flat with something other than John. They knew it was a long-shot prognosis. 221b Baker Street had been the only place Sherlock ever considered 'home'. Neither man had the gumption to explain to Sherlock that 221b Baker Street hadn't been his home in almost 5 years. Mycroft, during the occasional update, would tell John that Sherlock preferred thinking he was on some high-profile investigation where he needed to be undercover at the ward. They knew it was better that way, for his mind to stay as active as possible before the condition progressed to a point where he no longer deduced about the man down the hall or the woman who handed out pills. They knew eventually there would be a last time for Sherlock to show up on John's doorstep, a last time to tell Sherlock the truth. But for tonight, for this visit, it was not that time.

* * *

Sometimes, men don't die right away. Sometimes, men die slowly. Sometimes life is snatched away in the dark, pick-pocketed by time and fate. Sometimes, when a man dies, he really thinks he is living one last time.


End file.
